


No Haven For This Heart

by Nevanna



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Jealousy, M/M, Mind Games, Missing Scene, Pining, Power Dynamics, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Harassment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-25 00:11:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21108296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nevanna/pseuds/Nevanna
Summary: Even though he fears that it won't be enough, Martin tries to be what Jon needs.





	No Haven For This Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a kinkmeme prompt centering around Martin's jealousy.
> 
> The title is from the song "My Medea" by Vienna Teng.

Martin has worked at the Magnus Institute for long enough to know that its director rarely, if ever, drops in on his staff “just to observe,” so either none of the other researchers are on edge, or they’re concealing their unease exceptionally well.

Elias circles the room, asking polite questions about this title or that project, and Martin tries simultaneously to hide behind an enormous book of mid-century maps, and to hide the fact that he’s hiding. Still, he can’t keep from peering over the edge of the book as Elias draws Jon into a brief conversation about secret societies, squeezes his shoulder, makes the tips of Jon’s ears turn red and his lips curve into a smile. 

The air in the room has started to seem a little bit too heavy, and Martin is glad to step out into the cool of the evening as soon as he can.

Sasha catches up with him, wisps of hair escaping from the knot atop her head. “Somebody is smitten,” she sing-songs.

“With Elias?” Martin forces a laugh. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh, don’t even start.” Sasha gives him a friendly poke in the shoulder. “This last month, you’ve spent nearly as much time staring at Jon as you spent looking at books and microfilm.”

“I never…” She rolls her eyes, and Martin relents. “D’you think he’s noticed?” Up until now, Jon has seemed most inclined to acknowledge his colleagues when he’s scoffing at their theories. (“If he actually saw a ghost,” Tim has said, “would he try to argue it out of existence or just explode on the spot?”) But even when he’s trying to prove a hoax, Jon delves into each case with an almost hungry determination, and Martin is as transfixed by that as he is by cheekbones or fingers or soft, silver-threaded hair.

“You know there’s only one way to find out, right?”

“Borrow a Ouija board from Artifact Storage?” Martin suggests.

“Trust me, you do _not_ want to touch anything in their Toys and Games section,” Sasha says emphatically. “You’ll just have to _talk_ to him. Find out if he’s worth getting to know. Let him get to know you. Maybe, if you want to really live dangerously, you could invite him for a drink after work.” She meets his eyes. “_Would_ you want that?”

“I. Well. Yes.” Martin pictures Jon sitting beside him at a bar, or across a table, his usually severe face transformed by that same tiny smile that he gave their boss earlier. “I think I would.”

“Then do something about it,” Sasha insists. “Otherwise he’ll never know. I don't think he’s a mind reader.”

-

Martin falls into step alongside Jon in the corridor. “Congratulations,” he offers.

“Thank you, I suppose.” Jon spares him the barest glance. “It seems that we all have our work cut out for us.”

“So, you want me?” Martin blurts out. “Er, in the Archives, that is. As your assistant.”

“_Elias_ thinks that you’ll be an asset to the department.” The emphasis is slight but unmistakable. “And I shall need all the help that I can get.”

“You’ll have it,” Martin promises. “Whatever you need.”

The new Head Archivist – Martin’s new _supervisor_ – slows down long enough to appraise him. “We’ll see.”

-

Martin’s heart hammers in the darkness, and he manages not to scramble for a light to make sure that nothing is crawling over his toes. In his dreams, the worms didn’t stop at his feet, and Jon just sat and _watched_ from the corner of the room…

If Martin is lucky, he’ll be able to go back to sleep, and be halfway productive when the workday properly begins. Perhaps he’ll even be able to catch Jon at his most unguarded, before he draws that businesslike and infuriatingly skeptical mantle around himself.

Over the past few months, Martin has tried to keep his promise to be the perfect assistant. He arrived early, stayed late, found out how Jon liked his tea, and tried not to drop any heavy objects on either of their feet. And he volunteered to follow up on cases that raised too many questions, no matter how much trouble he thought they might land him in. Never regretted it, until whatever was left of Jane Prentiss trapped him in his flat with no way to reach the outside world.

During those two weeks, when he thought about how things might be going at the Institute, he found it more and more difficult to believe that anybody would worry about him, know or care what happened to him. And even if he survived to tell the tale (_Statement of Martin Blackwood, regarding the world’s worst pest control problem…_), he doubted that Jon would believe him.

When Jon did, Martin counted that among the most astonishing things that he’d heard since he started working here. Even more extraordinary was the temporary solution that they’d agreed upon. Curled up in the narrow bed in the storage space, Martin can sometimes hear the rise and fall of Jon’s voice as he records statements on the other side of the door, and feels safe in a way that he doesn’t entirely understand.

As the terror from his nightmare starts to recede, he hears the sound of another voice, and although he still can’t make out the words, he’s almost certain that it belongs to Elias. 

It takes Martin a very long time to fall asleep again.

-

“Now that we’ve settled the question of whether or not there’s a murderer among us,” Elias says, reaching over to shut off the tape recorder, “could you give Jon and me a moment alone?”

Martin hesitates, and Jon looks him in the eye for the first time since the “intervention” began. “Go on, Martin. I’ll be fine.”

Martin backs out of the office, but as Sasha and Tim turn a corner, he can’t resist lingering outside the door, which one of them has left ajar. Through the narrow opening, he can see that Elias has placed both hands on Jon’s shoulders, one thumb brushing a constellation of circular scars that the Prentiss-creature left on Jon’s neck. As Martin turns away, he can’t banish the image that flickers unbidden through his mind: Elias undoing the buttons on Jon’s shirt to map out that pattern with fingers and lips until…

Martin wants to follow that map himself. He wants to stop thinking about it. He wants to slam open the door and pull Jon away. Instead, he hurries along as if he can outrun his embarrassment and desire. 

He thought that he’d feel better once they’d addressed Jon’s paranoia, but then, he’d also made the mistake of anticipating a change for the better after he’d confessed the truth about his background. (He had to admit that it was a relief to let the words loose.) Instead, both confrontations felt like the first rumbles of thunder in too-still air, the beginnings of a storm that won’t start to break until Jon himself is a suspected killer.

-

Elias holds up one hand. “Martin, if you have any insights that trained detectives are likely to miss, I’d love to hear them. Otherwise, I think it’s best if you focus on your work. You, of all people, should know that recording a statement can be an excellent way to lose yourself.”

Martin remembers dark urgency in Jon’s voice as he described an approaching horror from the relative safety of his chair. “I know, but…”

Elias looks up from his desk again as if he’s surprised that Martin is still there. “Yes?”

“Am I the only one who cares what happens to him?” The minute the words are out, Martin wishes that he could swallow them back, especially once he sees the look on Elias’ face.

“I care more than you can possibly guess,” Elias says slowly, enunciating each word, sounding like only the thinnest thread of civility is keeping a growl from slipping into his voice. “Certainly enough to know that, when he returns to us, he’ll be glad to see that his department is running smoothly.”

Maybe it’s something about the certainty of that “when,” or his memory of the rage on Detective Tonner’s face when she stormed past him, but Martin finds himself demanding, “You know more than you’ve been telling, don't you?”

Elias stands up. “Oh, I would say so.” He raises a finger. “I know that even if Jon were the most vile monster imaginable, some part of you would still want him.” Another finger. “That you spent your confinement hoping that he’d burst into your flat and rescue you from Prentiss’ worms, and spent your stay in the Archives hoping that he’d join you in bed. Bit of a tight squeeze, but I’m sure you’d manage. I know that you can’t look at his scars without wanting to kiss them.”

At some point during the flurry of _How does he know?_ and _What _else_ does he know?_ Martin forgets what he was going to say. It probably contained the word “inappropriate,” or perhaps “irregular,” but Elias isn’t a _regular_ boss, any more than the Magnus Institute is, or ever has been, a normal workplace.

“… doesn’t matter which one of you bends the other one over his desk. You change up the fantasy depending on your mood, and I certainly can’t blame you for that. And when he found out that you falsified your credentials, you were going to offer to suck him off in exchange for his silence. But it felt so _good_ to open up to him that you’re saving that offer for later. Am I wrong?” Elias asks sharply, as Martin starts to back away. “Now, none of what I’ve just said will leave this room, as long as _you_ stay and listen.” Almost despite himself, Martin does. “I also know that whenever he laughs at one of Tim’s jokes, or displayed some clumsy gallantry toward Sasha, or camaraderie with Constable Hussain… not to mention whenever I show him the appreciation that he so desperately craves…” Elias grins, and Martin wishes that he could squeeze his eyes shut. “…You become _poisonously_ jealous, imagining where those gestures might lead, because you can’t stand the idea that someone else can give him what you can’t. That they might know what’s best for him, when you don’t. Are you going to deny any of that?”

Martin is proud of how steady his voice is: “What do you want me to say?”

“I _want_ you to understand that when we do see Jon again, he’ll need a lot more than tea and sympathy. Oh, you can keep fussing over him as much as you like, as long as you don’t stop me from providing him with much more crucial guidance.” Elias extends his hand as if he’s about to close a business deal. “I think that’s a small price to pay for my discretion, with regard to your little daydreams.”

Martin holds out his own hand, then snatches it back. “How do you do that?” he asks, without really expecting an answer.

“Do what?” Elias sounds puzzled, but his eyes gleam.

“Mess with people’s heads. I’m probably not the only one, right?”

“Oh, Martin.” Elias seems to have stopped trying to hide his amusement. “You really haven’t considered what our Archivist has been doing, have you?”

-

_“Otherwise he’ll never know. I don't think he’s a…”_

Those words come back to Martin, not for the first time, when he’s busy pulling statement files that seem connected somehow to the circus or the theater.

Jon pauses with his hand on the doorknob. “What are you laughing at?” Too late, he realizes what he must have done, and alarm flashes across his face.

The words churn (_tingle_) to the surface and spill from Martin’s lips. “Something that Sasha – the real one, not that _thing_ – said to me once, about you being… you know… a mind reader.” He tries to smile. “Guess she was onto something.” 

“Oh. I see.” Jon collects himself. “I’m not entirely sure _what_ I am, Martin, and I understand much less about the other entities that seem to recur in our investigations. I _am_ sure that I need to understand as much of it as possible, as quickly as I can.”

“And you think that Elias can help you?” Martin asks bitterly. _Can give him what I can’t…_

“I don’t like it much, either,” Jon admits. “But whatever he has up his sleeve, I’m still grateful for the support of people who _haven’t_ tried to frame me for murder. I hope that I still have that.”

Elias has a hold over them all that they can’t break anytime soon, but Martin sometimes thinks that he could loosen those bonds by confessing the secrets that he made a devil’s bargain to keep: _Jon, I love you, and we’ll figure this out together._ “I said, ‘whatever you need,’” he replies instead. “And I meant it.”

“I’m glad that hasn’t changed, at least,” Jon says, and slips out the door.


End file.
